


pace rival crop marathon 22"

by familiar



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Clothed Sex, Crossdressing, Light Dom/sub, M/M, kind of?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-25
Updated: 2016-12-25
Packaged: 2018-09-11 23:58:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9045449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/familiar/pseuds/familiar
Summary: I try to be vague and artsy but here is exactly what happens in this fic: Bitty makes Jack buy a pair of women's yoga pants at Lululemon and then frots against Jack's ass while he wears them.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [theworstwolves](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theworstwolves/gifts).



> https://shop.lululemon.com/p/women-crops/Pace-Rival-Crop-Marathon/_/prod8260052?rcnt=57&N=7yg&cnt=102&color=LW6ABMS_026424

Bitty has told this story a million times before, and it always delights him: “So I said it was hard finding pants for your—I used the word ‘shape’ instead of the word ‘ass.’ ” He’s grinning like an idiot over a stack of folded pants called “Tight Stuff.” To Jack it seems like an awful name for a pair of pants, nor does he really grasp why pants have names, nor does he really get why Bitty’s dragged him here.

“What are these for, again?”

Bitty is rifling through pants. “Running, I guess.” He doesn’t look up.

“I already have running tights.”

“Well you do a lot of running,” Bitty explains. “You need more.”

Jack is loath to spend his days off indoors, and wasn’t thrilled to learn that they were going to the mall, of all places. But Bitty said he needed some particular cake pan—an eight-inch spring-form pan, actually. There’s a spring-form pan in the cabinet above the refrigerator already, and when Jack asked about it he’d been told that _that one_ was a ten-incher, thank you, which is too large for the New York cheesecake Bitty plans to bake this weekend. Jack likes cheesecake, but isn’t sure why the pan size should matter in this case, or what makes a cheesecake New York or not, or why they haven’t made it to Sur La Table yet. Also they are looking at yoga pants, and you can’t bake a cheesecake in _that_.

Bitty glances away from the pile, his gaze drawn to the other side of the store. “I wonder,” he begins, but whatever his thought, he doesn’t finish it. Instead, he hands Jack a pair of the Tight Stuffs and says, “Could you hold those, please? Thanks, sweetheart.” He then floats to the wall of pants on the other side of the room.

Jack follows, because of course he does.

“What do you think of those?” Bitty asks, in front of the cubbies of pants. They are piled nearly to the ceiling, and there’s a display ass, a sort of half-mannequin, modeling the pants above. They’re two-toned, with a mesh panel that creeps up toward the crotch.

Jack does a double-take because—well, wouldn’t that be kind of … revealing? Surely Bitty isn’t serious.

But he kneels down to the bottom of the display so that he can get at one of the largest sizes. “Hold these,” he says, offering the men’s pair he grabbed earlier.

Jack, of course, takes them without thinking.

“Won’t you look nice in these?” Bitty’s unfolded them and he’s inspecting them generally, and then with increasing attention: he looks at the tag, the seam on one of the legs where the mesh panel is sewn into it, and the cut in the back. “Yes,” he concludes, standing up again. He’s holding up the pants between two hands, so that they hand in front of Jack’s eye ominously. “Yes, I think these will look lovely on you.”

Around them, soccer moms are doing their Christmas shopping. Bored boyfriends (husbands?) eye their phones for minutes at a time while their companions disappear into the dressing room. Jack can hear two of the clerks, one with a bobble of a bun on her head, discussing the group run they’re leading tomorrow, from the store. For a moment, Jack thinks: if I shop here now, can I come too?

But then Bitty hands him the second pair of pants, swats his hip, and says, “Go on, you go buy those, now.”

Besides, he usually runs alone, or with George, if he’s in the mood for that.

It’s only when they’re on the way home that Jack realizes they never even went to Sur La Table, and haven’t picked up the eight-inch spring-form pan.

* * *

“You tell me if you’re not okay with any of this,” Bitty says, once they’re back, unzipped and unbuttoned, shoes untied and reusable shopping bag stowed with the others in the coat closet.  

“What wouldn’t I be okay with?” They talk about things, so it’s not as if Bitty doesn’t know that Jack is—fine with this, mostly. More or less always. He likes it, most of the time. He asks for it, even, on occasion.

He didn’t ask for it today, but somehow ... _somehow_ , that makes him like it more.

“Just, if any of this doesn’t feel right you tell me, okay?”

“It’s fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“It’s fine,” Jack repeats. If there’s one thing he _doesn’t_ enjoy quite so much, it’s being asked all the time if things are fine. He would say so, if they weren’t. He’s in no danger, is the thing. Bitty wouldn’t hurt him. Bitty is half his size—well, not _half_ , not nearly, but nor is Bitty nearly as tall, as _broad_. And that’s the point, isn’t it, to Jack? That Bitty doesn’t ... he doesn’t _make_ Jack do things, not with force. There’s no threat there. It’s something kinder, and yet, somehow deeper and darker, too. Jack could say no without the fear of consequences.

It’s just that there’s something so gratifying about seeing Bitty light up when Jack does what he’s told.

“Go put on your new pants,” Bitty says. He cups Jack’s cheek, reaching up. “You know which ones.”

There’s really no reason not to do as Bitty says.

Jack has running tights already, yes, but all things considered, he supposes he could rotate in another pair.

These other ones, though, with the panel—he can barely get them on. They’re not built for someone with his shape, it’s true. Bitty can wear women’s clothing, no problem. Oh, not any piece, not any size—he’s broad-shouldered, considering his height; he has no breasts, so any garment built for that is right out. But given an hour and some patience Bitty can find women’s clothing if he wants to wear that, which, not often, but, not _never_. He could wear it out of the house and, well, not _pass_ , but it wouldn’t look _wrong_ , necessarily.

When Bitty has Jack put these things on, it looks wrong, usually. Jack imagines these pants will be something like that—they barely budge when he tries to yank them up his thighs. Women just don’t have bodies like his, he thinks—well, not natural women, not _ideal_ women, he tells himself. “Women and men come in all shapes and sizes,” some fragment of memory tells Jack while he’s inching the pants up. He isn’t sure where that’s coming from—some commercial, an organization he’s worked with, some college seminar he’s forgotten he once sat through? It’s just, biology is destiny sometimes, Jack thinks. They’re somewhat high-waisted pants, but he can’t get them up quite that high. He manages to get them just past his hips, but they won’t go any higher and they barely cover his crack. It doesn’t look right.

It looks—

“Look at you!” When Bitty sees, he puts a hand to his chest. He sits on the edge of the bed and studies Jack in his old, soft T-shirt and ridiculous new pants. “You look so good, come here.”

So Jack does come. He stands right at Bitty’s feet and waits.

“You can—” Bitty hardly has to finish, but still, Jack waits until he’s pointed toward the rug.

And Jack kneels there. Usually this is such a relief but those pants, they’re just—restricting, and tight, and Jack can feel everything pulling. Fabric creeps into his crack and it strains against his thighs and calves. Across his dick. It’s just, he can’t—

“I think you look so good,” Bitty breathes. His thumb comes to brush against Jack’s cheek. “You wanna get up again? Lemme see. Hands and knees. Show me?”

It’s weird how Bitty phrases these things as a question, and weirder still how Jack doesn’t answer. Whether he wants to is irrelevant. He just _does_. Of course he _wants_ to; he wants Bitty to do as he’s doing now, running his palms over Jack’s behind and hissing, “This is obscene.” Bitty grabs, groping, wedging his knee between Jack’s two thighs.

“I wish you could see,” Bitty is moaning. “It’s so beautiful, sweetheart. I’d put this on our Christmas cards if I could.” Their actual Christmas card is a picture Jack took on their summer jaunt to Nova Scotia, a jagged segment of coastline. He was overjoyed to get that shot, so pleased with the silver of green he’d captured between the cliffs over the Bay of Fundy. It was sunset, light dwindling, and the outcropping they’d overtaken too uneven for a tripod. Jack was proud of that shot, had blushed when Bitty suggested putting it on their Christmas card. He can’t imagine replacing it with a picture of his ass, in women’s yoga pants. They sent out hundreds of those cards: to Jack’s current teammates; old teammates; Bitty’s coworkers; their families; Falconers staff on many levels of the Falconers staffing hierarchy; doctors and accountants and former professors and old coaches; friends’ parents; nice guys Jack has kindly declined to brawl with on opposing teams; their dry cleaner; anyone who’s sent fan mail in the past year, hockey fans and fellow vloggers alike; the various and sundry parties that comprise the fabric of a life.

What if they had sent a picture of Jack’s ass in yoga pants to all of those people? Jack thinks about it. Thinking about it just serves to make him grow stiffer and start leaking.

Jack starts to thrust, pointlessly, against air, against nothing.

“Stop.” Bitty grabs a handful of Jack’s thigh. “No, sweetheart. Not yet. Let me.” Jack can hear Bitty unzipping his pants, though. “You’re so good,” he says. He says it a lot, like a mantra: “You’re so good, so beautiful,” these compliments seemingly in time with Bitty’s thrusting, first careful and then wanton, against that stretchy fabric.

Bitty pauses at one point, pushing up Jack’s T-shirt to kiss his back, kneading Jack’s hardness through the pants and causing Jack to come in them when he says, “I know I tell you all the time I think you’re wonderful, but there’s nothing capital-G good about your ass in these pants, sweetheart. I wish you could see. You should see—” And that’s where Jack can’t keep it together anymore. He says nothing, shuts his eyes, and lefts it wash over him, though that’s a pretty romantic way to think about what is nothing more and nothing less than coming in his own pants.

On the other hand, Bitty’s the type to say “I’m coming,” like that’s also a manta, like maybe Jack wants to know. Maybe he would, if they were face-to-face, or if this were something run-of-the-mill, like missionary-type fucking on the bed rather than six feet in front of it. But maybe Jack doesn’t want to know that Bitty’s getting off on this, because _this_ is pretty much unseemly. With Bitty’s hot breath on his back, Jack takes a moment to strain for a glance to check whether he can see any come through the mesh panel. No—disappointing. That would have been gross, and hot. Maybe if Bitty made him save it up for a week, or maybe if he went a size up, or down, in these pants, or whatever.

“I’ll tell you when to take em off,” Bitty says. But then he gets in the shower, marinates the chicken for tomorrow night’s dinner, and starts making notes on his cheesecake recipe. (“Shoot,” he says, looking up, leaning over the counter. “Why didn’t you say anything? I forgot to get a pan.”)

So Jack gets into bed still wearing those pants, tacky around the thighs and the front, not exactly comfortable still constricting. He lies awake for a time while Bitty drifts to sleep and then begins snoring, as he does, against Jack's armpit. Jack has to fly to Dallas in two days; he won’t be back for more than a week.

The more time he spends away from this, well. He doesn’t miss it any less.


End file.
